Animal Death - Tumblr Posts

Men of war, oh how they've fallen

frog4scalpel

Old Leather Saddle

Old leather was what the saddle was made of as Sammy ran a hand over it the dust collecting on her fingers, she looked at the saddle the name Estrella was in bold on the side. She sighed as she grabbed a rag off the hook and some cleaner, as she wiped off the dust a feeling of warmth and comfort came over her as she remembered her old horse Estrella.

The old Thoroughbred mare was with her for a while before she passed leaving Sammy with a hole in her heart. The dark coal coat of Estrella, memories of calm trail rides to the river, early mornings and late nights in the stable grooming and working with her. They made it hurt so much to watch the horse slowly slip into the skilled hands of death. But she knew she would be fine cause death as with all things is natural, even if it hurt to see the life leave the mare's eyes as the vet gave her the injections. Soft sobs of pain and loneliness echoed in Estrella's stall that night.

Estrella was keeping a silent, ghostly vigil over her young master, her bridle that shone a brilliant white with small gold markings was held by a skeleton hand cracked and worn, the owner of which spoke in a soft gravely voice "It's time to go old girl, and don't worry your master will be alright." The horse was hesitant at first to go with them and leave her master behind.

Belgian Draft skull 🐎

my cat Elsie is dying from kidney failure so im just snapping a bunch of pictures of her. im devastated and afraid of waking up to her dead. she's always been there to comfort me when I was crying and she was my friend when I didn't have any. i have no idea how much longer she has, but im going to make sure she's comfortable once she passes.

What is it with Disney’s obsession with turning some of their most evil villains into misunderstood anti-heroes?

I’m sorry, but no. You can’t make the rich woman who skins puppies sympathetic or cool.

I am sad to report that we had to say goodbye to our 15 year old cat, Mouse, today. We had him 13 years, he trained five dogs and Ruffles (the newest addition) was like a giant kitten to him. He was my buddy, our sweet boy, even if he did pee outside the litter box.

// animal death mention

"It's just a cat, don't cry" they said when I was young and my fur baby died

It's been seven years and I still cry over him.

He was never "just" a cat.

tw: canon-typical homophobia, medical gore (near the end). pre-dethklok magnus and murderface, just dudes bein roommates

They pay the security deposit with the last of Magnus' college fund and put Murderface's grandfather's name on the lease instead of their own. It's garbage day, so they spend their morning cruising around a neighborhood on the nice end of town, occasionally stopping to throw furniture into the back of Magnus' truck. They bribe Nathan with a case of beer to help them 'move in', and by the afternoon, it almost looks like a real home: tatty sofa, cracked TV screen, stack of amps along the wall, their own mattresses on the floors of their rooms. It's a two-bedroom, but they deserve a two-bedroom, because they're going to make it big, after all. Nathan almost has a drummer lined up, a big name supposedly, and the gigs are already being penciled in, and they know by instinct that Dethklok is going to be big. Really big. They should be living like kings.

So, on their first day in their new apartment, Murderface and Magnus sit on opposite sides of their freshly-scavenged couch and watch their cracked TV. Magnus has done some 'creative' wiring so that they can 'borrow' cable from the neighbouring apartment, but right now they're only getting one channel and it's the one where people try to sell you things. Deluxe vacuums, currently. Nathan's gone off to have some meeting with their potential new drummer, so it's just the two of them, in their new apartment, that they're now renting together, on their own personal couch. Just the two of them. Roommates. Sitting on a couch…

"Is thisch gay?" Murderface asks aloud.

Magnus glances over a him. "Excuse me?"

"Thisch is kinda gay, right? Two guys living together?"

Magnus blinks at him. "Oh, yeah, totally, man," he replies apathetically, directing his attention back to the television.

"Wait, fuck, scheriously?"

"Seriously. Says on the lease we have to suck each other off every night."

"Fuck. Thatsch not good."

"Trust me, you get used to it."

"Aw, man, this schucks! I don't wanna suck a dude off! Can't I jusch jerk you off or somethin'?"

"If you jerk me off, we don't get the security deposit back."

"Fuck the shecurity deposit. That's your money anyway."

Magnus gives Murderface one of his famous cutting glances from the corner of his eyes. Then he settles back into the couch, propping an ankle over his knee, jiggling his foot a little.

Murderface tries to mimic him, likewise sinking into the sofa, likewise crossing his legs. Super relaxed, super cool.

"I'm not suckin' nobody's pee-pee," Murderface grumbles. "My name's not even on the schtupid lease."

Magnus has already lost interest in the joke. "Oh. Sure. I guess legally, your grand-dad has to suck it."

"Dude, grossch--"

"Shut up," Magnus sits up, gestures to the TV. "Look at that."

The vacuum infomercial has ended. A man dressed as a cowboy now stands before a fake desert backdrop, delivering an inaudible monologue (the speakers on their TV are broken).

"Aw schit," says Murderface, "Now that jusch makes me homeschick."

"Keep watching, idiot," says Magnus.

Murderface keeps watching. He watches as the cowboy reaches into his hip-holster and draws a long, shiny samurai sword.

"Schit!" Murderface sits up. "That's fuckin' aweschome!"

"Right?"

"I want a fuckin' sword-holster! You know what? I'll suck you off if it means we get your money back and use it to buy a fuckin' cowboy ninja sword!"

Magnus looks thoughtful. "You know," he begins slowly, "I have some money left in my college fund."

They lock eyes. No further words need pass between them. They stand and go for the door.

~

Magnus and Murderface are standing before a kiosk in a shopping mall, admiring a dazzling array of knives.

They have big knives; knives with bad-ass triangular holes in them (aerodynamic!); knives with iridescent blades; knives with that fancy stripy folded-steel blades; They have hunting knives with camo-print handles, little pocket knives, Swiss army knives, pocket knives with bullets for handles, pocket knives with lighters for handles, pocket knives hidden in lipstick (for the ladies). They have knives with spikes on them and knives shaped like axes and knives with jagged serrated edges that look like shark's teeth. And, of course, they have swords.

"Schit," Murderface says, pointing, "I want that one."

"Bad quality steel," Magnus says, without looking.

"Fuck that schit, the blade is black. That means high carbon. Extra scharp."

"This is what you want," says Magnus, pointing to a plain steel hunting knife. "Utilitarian. Functional."

"Boooo-ring."

"Classy. That's a knife you can bring to a fancy dinner."

"Check out that knife," Murderface interrupts him. The knife he points to has a blade the length of his forearm, with spikes all around the base near where it connects to the handle, and several triangular holes in the centre.

"Shit," Magnus breathes. "That's a cool knife."

"So fucking cool."

"You want that one?"

"Well, yeah, but…"

"But?"

"I've been thinking, we schould get a lot of knives. An aschortment of knives."

"Oh, yeah, absolutely."

"We need the right knives for the right occasions. Every knife scherves its own purposch."

"And a sword, of course."

"Two schwords! One for you, one for me."

"Three swords. We'll have to keep one by the door, in case of intruders."

"Yeah! It's a bad neighborhood, who knows what could happen."

They lock eyes. They nod. Magnus signals for the clerk.

~

They've just pulled onto the highway and an awful staticky death metal band is blasting over the radio when Magnus turns the volume down and says, "We should have a special dinner. To celebrate the move."

"Dude, grosch," Murderface, whose lap is currently full of knives, replies. "That's gay."

"I'm gay? You're holding a rainbow knife."

"Uh, it'sch called an oil-spill butterfly knife? It'sch limited edition?"

"Whatever, man. It doesn't have to be anything fancy. We can get steak or something. Champagne."

"Gaaaay."

"The champagne makes the lease-required dick-sucking easier, William. You'll thank me later."

Viscerally disgusted, Murderface stabs Magnus' dashboard with his newly-acquired limited-edition oil-spill butterfly knife. "Eugh, just don't call me that while you're talking about dick-sucking! You're really grosching me out."

"Whatever you say, honey."

"Hammersmith--"

Magnus turns up the radio, rolls down the window to let the wind blow in. Murderface watches him tuck his long hair behind his ear, then stabs his dashboard once more, for good measure.

~

They are standing in a grocery store looking at the meat cabinet. It's all very red, and fleshy, and if you think about it, it should be brutal-- a cabinet of dismembered body parts, ruthlessly torn apart, laid out like inanimate objects to be purchased for money and consumed by strangers. Brutal. And yet…

"I don't like it," Murderface declares.

Magnus is frowning at an array of whole fish. "Hm."

"It's jusch lame or something." Murderface rams his fist against the glass. "Whatsch the point of eating meat if you don't even get to kill the animal first? It's fucking bullschit!"

"Hm," Magnus repeats himself. "What about that?"

He points towards a door leading to the back room. Through it they can see a large, steel table, and on top of it is a full half of a pig, skinned and ready for butchering.

"Yeah…" Murderface says slowly, "That's pretty schick."

"You," Magnus snaps at the clerk behind the counter, "We'll take that one. Yes, that one, in the room back there…"

… Ten minutes and a great deal of haggling later, they're pushing half a pig in a cart down the cheese aisle.

"My roommate in college was a law guy," Magnus is explaining. "He went to a lot of fancy events. Showed me the ropes."

"Did you suck his hog?"

"The secret is in the cheese. You have to get the right cheese, and… olives."

Murderface leers at the cheeses before them. "This one looksch fancy," he says, grabbing a package at random.

"Good, get a hard one as well."

"We're in a groschery store, Hammerschmith, that's not appropriate."

"You know," Magnus says quite calmly, "One of these days, I am going to stab you."

Murderface grabs another package at random and throws it on top of the pig carcass. "Oh I bet you'd like that. Schtickin' things in guys."

"William," Magnus lays a hand on Murderface's shoulder. "You're fixated on my sexuality because you're insecure about yours. I get that, and I just want you to know, as a friend, that I don't mind if you're gay."

Murderface smacks his hand away. "Ughh! Don't try your shrink-school bullschit on me!"

"I fully support you and your rainbow knives."

"Shut up! What elsch do we need, olives?"

~

They're stopped at a gas station while Magnus fills up his truck. Murderface is standing in the wine section selecting only the finest gas station champagnes for their housewarming dinner. Which is some bullshit, now that he thinks about it. What the fuck even is champagne? Bubbly wine, right? Maybe they can just drop an alka-seltzer into a carton of Franzia. That's probably easier than trying to read the French gibberish on the labels of all these bottles.

Murderface has a carton of Franzia on his shoulder and is heading for the medicinals section when he catches sight of something truly marvelous.

There, by the door, stands a glass display cabinet. And contained within that cabinet…

"What is that?" Magnus asks, when Murderface returns to the truck.

"Behold," says Murderface, with eminent pride, "A gnife!"

Like a modern bayonet, the 'knife' is, in fact, a very small pistol, with a knife's blade inexpertly welded to the barrel. He waves it in the air so that Magnus can get a proper look.

"Damn," Magnus breathes. "That's pretty cool."

"Right?"

"I don't care for guns myself, but even I can admit-- cool."

"It's scho fucking cool."

"Where's the champagne?"

"I figured we'll just throw a little alka-seltzer in thisch boxed wine. Trailer park champagne."

"Fine, fine. Get in, let's go."

"Hold on. I didn't pay for your gasch--"

"Get in the fucking truck, William!" Magnus yells.

William hurls himself into the passenger seat, landing uncomfortably atop their pile of newly-acquired knives, and Magnus peels out of the parking lot before the cops can show.

~

They're back in their apartment. They've laid the pig carcass out on the card table Nathan's parents have loaned them, and Magnus is holding a samurai sword.

"Come on!" Murderface urges, hitting his fists on the edge of the table. "Cut it already!"

"Give me time," Magnus growls. He's fixated on the carcass, his eyes are wide, pupils blown with excitement. "An artist's cuts must be… precise."

"Well, be preciser faster!" Murderface complains. "I wanna see a pig get fucked up!"

"Silence, grasshopper. Watch and learn… the way of the warrior!"

With one rapid stroke, Magnus brings the sword down, fast and hard, across the pig's torso. There's a loud meaty thwack. The sword is embedded a couple of inches into jiggly pig flesh.

"Shit!" Magnus yells. "The fucking sword isn't sharp!"

"Magnus, Magnus," Murderface says soothingly, sidling over to Magnus, gently nudging him aside. "Go get yourself some wine, let the blade-maschter handle this one." He eases Magnus' hands off of the sword's handle, takes it in his own firm grasp.

Grumbling, Magnus lets himself be pushed aside. "It's a problem with the blade," he complains. "My technique was perfect. Perfect!"

"It's not a problem with your technique, it's brute schtrength that matters the most." Murderface wrenches the sword out of the pig and raises it high above his head. "Watch and learn, Hammersmith!"

He rams the sword as hard as he possibly can into the pig carcass' neck.

The entire card table buckles and collapses.

"Brute strength," Magnus echoes, observing the pile of plastic and pig meat before them. He's already poured himself another solo-cup of shitty white wine.

Murderface stares at the wreckage for a few seconds. "Schwords not sharp!" he yells. "The fucking schword's not sharp!"

"Want some cheese?"

"Fuck yes, fuck this schtupid pig! Where's my butterfly knife? I'm cuttin' some bacon…"

~

Magnus and Murderface sit on opposite sides of their freshly-scavenged sofa in their brand new apartment and watch infomercials on their cracked TV. There is a pile of knives and swords in-between them.

"Pasch me some cheese," Murderface says.

Magnus drives the point of the knife in his hand through a block of cheese and holds it out to Murderface. Murderface skewers it on his own knife.

A man on the TV is talking about the virtues of humidifiers. Magnus has used his technical wizardry to plug one of their amps into the TV, so they have sound now.

"This guysch a fuckin' idiot," Murderface announces through a mouthful of cheese. "Who needs a humidifier in fuckin' Florida?"

"As if my hair isn't ruined enough," Magnus agrees, idly stabbing the arm of the sofa.

"I thought gay guys liked big hair."

"You're thinking of glam rockers. Also, William, I'm getting pretty tired of the gay jokes."

"Hittin' a nerve, am I?"

"If you have feelings for me, sort that shit out yourself. Or at least get a new joke. You're boring the hell out of me."

Murderface bites the tip of his cheese-knife and watches Magnus through narrowed eyes.

Magnus is staring boredly at the infomercial, ramming his knife into the sofa's arm with precise rhythm. When he's not having his notorious violent outbursts, he's actually quite cool and aloof, taking every affront with casual nonchalance. It's only those who have known him for a long time, such as Murderface, who know that below the artificial calmness lies a simmering rage liable to explode at any moment. Murderface has depended on Magnus since he left his grandparents' home; Murderface has seen Magnus flip out at waitresses without warning and throw chairs through diner windows. He is Murderface's idol. He's a ticking time-bomb.

And now they've moved to Florida together, and they're renting an apartment together, and no matter what Magnus says, it really does feel kind of gay.

Murderface picks up a random knife from their pile and starts ramming it into the sofa's arm, matching the timing of it with Magnus' stabbing.

They sit there for a while, each stabbing their respective sofa arms in peaceful synchronicity.

Murderface feels Magnus glance over at him. He stabs the sofa with a little more force.

"Hey," Magnus says in a low voice. Suddenly a piece of paper lands on his lap, with 'LEASE' written at the top. No instruction needed, Murderface stabs it.

A few minutes later, Murderface pulls off his vest and throws it to Magnus' side of the couch. Magnus balls it up and stabs it.

On Magnus' turn, he throws a whole block of cheese onto Murderface's lap. Murderface puts it on the sofa's arm and proceeds to stab the absolute shit out of it. By the time he's done he's practically reduced it to paste.

Magnus has been watching him all the while, ramming his hunting knife idly again and again into the sofa cushion beside his leg. Murderface can't think of anything else to throw at him, so--

"Schtab me," Murderface says.

Magnus looks mildly surprised. And he waits only a moment before leaning over and stabbing Murderface firmly in the top of the thigh.

"Holy schit!" Murderface shouts. "Fuck! Shit! Goddammit!" He clamps his hands over the wound-- blood wells out from them immediately-- he presses down hard, hissing with pain. "Fuckin' schit, Magnus!"

"Oh, grow up," says Magnus dismissively.

"You fuckin' schtabbed me!"

"There's a first aid kit in the truck. Here are my keys."

"Fuck. You aschole."

~

The sofa is covered in knives and blood. Murderface is drunk off of his ass on cheap wine and alka-seltzer, pantsless, sitting on a camp chair in the kitchen of his brand new apartment. Magnus is on the ground between Murderface's knees, holding a lighter in one hand and a sewing needle in the other.

"You schure you know how to do this?" Murderface slurs.

"Of course I do," Magnus says. His elbow is resting on Murderface's un-stabbed thigh, his gaze is focused on the needle he's currently heating with the lighter.

"Yeah? Schince when?"

"I dated an EMT for three months."

"What was his name?"

Magnus puts down the lighter and picks up a packet of dental floss from the floor. Brow wrinkled with concentration, he bites off a long length of it, then threads it through the eye of the needle. Then he drops the dental floss and picks up a handle of vodka. "William?"

"What."

"Don't be a little bitch."

The pain is excruciating. It's like his entire thigh has been set on fire and is being ripped apart from the inside by a thousand hell rats from hell (fuck, good song idea.) Murderface bites down on one of his own wrists, and then buries his other hand in Magnus' hair, clutching a handful of thick curly locks. His eyes water and the tears shatter the world into kaleidoscope-colours until he squeezes them shut; when he opens them again he sees the top of Magnus' head between his own bare and bloody thighs and he's wracked with pain and the sight is delusionally sublime.

Fuck.

Maybe there is something to that shrink-school bullcrap. Murderface just let a man stab him. Is that gay? Is he gay for letting his roommate stab him and then stitch him back up? When this is done he's going to have to do some real self-inspection, or whatever it's called.

Whatever, he's getting stitched back together in his own brand new apartment. Way more metal than having some doctor do it, and Murderface is no stranger to stabbings or their aftermath. He lets himself moan in pain, leaning back in the chair. He tilts his head back, whimpers, readjusts his grip on Magnus' hair. Fucking brutal. It's like a war movie. Like one of those civil war soldiers before they invented medicine. Every stroke of the needle vibrates through his core like heavy bass.

And suddenly-- it's over, too soon it's over. Did he black out? Magnus is standing in front of him, his bare chest covered in blood, wiping his hands on his trousers. Murderface glances down and sees his bare, pudgy thigh, likewise blood-stained, with a small stab-wound in one criss-crossed by uneven stitches.

"You're alright," Magnus says reassuringly.

Murderface struggles to sit upright. "Yeah…" he chokes out. "… Schit, that's a good knife. That's fucking scharp."

"I told you. Classic hunting knife. Can't go wrong." Magnus takes a swig of the vodka, then thoughtlessly wipes his mouth. A diluted streak of pinkish blood is left across his cheek. "Can you stand?"

"Uh, give me a schecond." Murderface feels woozy. He feels very warm. He wants Magnus to stab him again. He needs another cup of wine.

"Just hurry up," says Magnus, turning away. "That samurai cowboy guy is on and I need to write down the number."

"Yeah…" Murderface sighs, slumping back in his chair. "Yeah, sure, write it down for me, too…"

It is their first night in their new apartment. Everything is covered and blood, there is a pig carcass in the centre of their kitchen, and they just know they're going to make it big.

PLEASE BE CAREFUL FOR ANYONE WHO USES “BLUEBUFFALO” FOR THEIR DOGS!!

The Dying Dog

Hello no pressure but I would love more of your thought process behind the Dying Dog. It's a gorgeous piece and I need the directors commentary.

Thank you guys for giving so much attention to that one, you make me happy as ever!

Well, about the thought process.... heh... Let's say... *puffs a sig like Joker from the movie Joker*.. There were no thought process.....🚬

The picture just popped up in my head and I knew that was some kind of symbolism or metaphor here (I can't differentiate the two) but consciously I couldn't explain what it was. Just feelings... With both writing and art, it happens often - symbols are born by themselves and I'm unable to decipher what they mean unless I materialize them.

If I am to guess, the Dying Dog is just a metaphor for Sniper's inner state. When dogs die from natural causes, there's usually a period of time, about few weeks, to notice. In this period, the dog owners usually prepare for the loss, saying goodbye and making sure the last days of their pet are happy.

But in this piece Sniper is not an owner but a dog himself. He feels like slowly dying somehow, he's prepared and he's waiting. Except the end doesn't come near. Imagine lying there in pain, waiting for the sanctuary of death, but it's been months and years and it never ends. Yet it feels like the end. Does it make sense? Just what is he preparing for, exactly, then?..

Dizziness, feeling cold and sweaty from the inner heat. Yet no physical sign of dying.

A literal dying dog looks more alive than him.

(Also, a little timelapse!!)

"Just a bunch more biblical paintings then I'll go back to drawing yaoi" Or you can do both, renaissance style, Michelangelo or Raphael I honestly forgot who drew those naked men on the Sistine Chapel's ceilings ok bad joke aside: I'd love hearing more about your headcannons, specifically about the childhoods of the characters (ranging from the mercs, to Miss pauling, the Administrator, hell anyone you have ideas about!)

Childhood headcanons... How did you know I've had something about that on my mind? Alright, let's talk about...

Little Sniper

(Lots of trigger warnings ahead, check tags!)

Mundy was obviously an unhappy child. When I imagine the surroundings he grew up in, I see miles and miles of empty landscapes, dry yellow grass, unkept barns destroyed by rust and a deep choking sense of loneliness.

The closest neighbour woul be so far away you better bring a bicycle with you if you want to visit. School and Church were the only places to go, which were also very far away. No kids his age nearby. And even if there were peers at school, no one wanted him anyway.

Mundy was "weird", he didn't quite understand other kids' jokes, didn't get what was so fun about what everyone else enjoying to do; he was weaker, always loosing in close fights; he didn't even look very local for whatever reason. Even if he tried to get along with someone, it either ended up with him being ostracized or with him experiencing the greatest boredom imaginable. And the kids quickly picked up on his "difference", making him an object of bullying.

It started with making fun of everything Mundy does, his habits and speech patterns, his morals and ideas... Which wasn't anything too big for him but it was still very annoying and upsetting, he grew to hate school very quickly.

Coming home being exhausted from this kind of socializing, no one would really comfort him. Being very little, he used to tell on his bullies to his parents, telling how hurt he was by their words... And it would only made a mess in his family.

Overreactive mother: "Poor baby, I'm so sorry, I'll tell their parents to stop being mean, my little little baby, maybe we can go homeschooling..."

And a strict father: "Are you a man or what? Yeah, he will end up a bloody baby if you keep spoiling him like that! Suck it up! Of you can't stand for yourself, no one will. At this pace you'll end up a nobody, with no home nor respect from the world".

Mundy didn't want to be neither a baby nor a disappointment. He figured that sharing his feelings with parents wouldn't be that good of an idea, they won't understand anyway. And also that he must fight somehow.

If he can't win in close fights, he thought, he could hit them from a distance: throwing small rocks at the bullies from up the tree...

–He was punished for that. For some reason, every time Mundy fought back, he was scolded by the elders, who for some reason always believed the bullies that HE was the one starting the fights. They forbid him to fight back. He closed his feelings shut and stopped paying attention to almost everything around him.

Why was it like that? Why was he so different from other kids, why couldn't he understand them? Why couldn't he understand anyone in this world? The world was a mess of unspoken rules and suffering, overcoming oneself, pain; he couldn't fit in. He was always on the wrong even if he didn't do anything. He felt like an outsider everywhere he went.

Sometimes he wondered if he was born into a wrong family or that he wasn't a human at all. Looking at the night sky, he was thinking about aliens, maybe they would come to him someday and take him to the planet he truly belongs, being accidentally swapped at birth. Maybe then he will be happy, he will leave this sickening place and finally start living. He thought about dying, too.

He started to spend a lot of time in the forest any chance he got. He was alone here, unwatched, somewhat free. It was easier to breathe here. He was alone but it didn't feel worse than being with those people. He played by himself. He started to believe that he actually liked loneliness.

As Mundy and his peers grew older, the kids started to become more and more savage, thanks to the hormones and age crisis. Bullying intensified as those kids started to feel the need to assert themselves. Mundy was maliciously beaten (he fought back as much as he could and even win sometimes, but the beating only got worse each time). They used any chance to humiliate him.

And each time after that Mundy would take the knife or his father's shotgun and go to the forest to take his anger on animals, "hunting", since he couldn't do anything to fix the root of the problem.

He would hunt for something small, like birds or feral rabbits so he could butcher them and cook on fire to eat. At moments like this he felt like a beast, and somehow it was the most pleasant state for him to be in.

There were no words available to form his pain into, so the pain came through violence. The more violent his abusers became, the more violent he was at his "hunting". The more he felt his father's gaze piercing him with disappointment, the sharper his knife movements would get. Sometimes he would let the bodies to just rot like that, completely butchered in a very non-culinary way.

(Maybe someday he would lure one of those bastards to the forest and kill him the same way and blame it on an animal attack)

And at some point... His classmates would came up with something that would cross all the lines of forgivable. Somewhere there was the peak of what they could do. Something beyond.

There wasn't a known way to him to deal with that. No known words. Everyone would be so grossed out of him if they knew. He was beyond disgusted with himself, too. What was the point of living now?

That day he would shot a wild boar, take his machete out and cut it open, butcher it the way his father would when they wanted a pork dinner for the night... And reached to its heart.

The heart is where the love is stored, right? That's what people say when referring to this "love" he'd never seem to know. A dark read bloody organ that feels like sponge inside of thin rubber. There's something about this that Mundy lacks. He has a heart too, it's pulsating inside him, but for some reason it was unable to produce the "love", a very necessary fluid for a human body. He wondered if it's sweet. He wondered if he was even able to taste it.

He took a bite... And realized what he was doing.

He was, indeed, a monster.

When he went back home, later than usual, he would be met with his father's gaze. He was always throwing gazes, for every occasion, Mundy was used to feel small and guilty under them. But this time... It felt somehow much more personal. More disturbing.

His father looked at him as if he was a dirty little creature, a rat, a maggot. He looked at him the way one would look at a criminal who wronged their whole family. He looked at him like he knew.

His father didn't say anything that day and it wasn't brought up ever again.

Mundy was indeed a monster who was utterly terrified of this though. He didn't want to be one. He made a promise to himself that everything he does will be morally justified, he promised himself to become a good... decent person. He would earn his place in the world, even if his father, everyone else denies it.

It gets blurry at this point. Sniper doesn't really remember his life before about 17, when he was finishing school and starting to work on his sniper licence. For some reason he always knew he would be good at shooting and killing. When remembering his home, Sniper would recall the smell of grass, mother's cooking, the warm sun, and a steady life he had. He knew it was boring, but it still somehow felt like home. Home he felt was lost somewhere he didn't remember.

Either way, he was always a loner.

Cemetery of Doves

How about a hero who accidentally kills a cat and feels bad about it so they bury it but villain finds them? Love your writing!

The hero was thoroughly, miserably, soaked and shivering on the ground. Dirt coated their palms, under their fingernails and on their knees.

They dragged a hand down their face. Fought off a wretched sob.

Their fingers shook as they set the flower down on the tiny mound.

Behind them, the sirens on an ambulance cut off, plunging them into silence. If they thought about it, they could feel the blood seeping from their side. They could hear the sound of rubble shattering to the ground echo in their ears.

And the screaming.

They could hear that, too.

They didn’t think about it.

A sob worked it’s way out of their chest, painful in their throat as they tried to swallow it.

“I’m sorry,” they choked. Their voice cracked. “It was—an accident, and I know that doesn’t…”

They had to bite their lip to stop another sob.

“Praying?” the villain questioned from behind, voice gentle.

The hero shrugged one bruised shoulder.

“No.”

The villain stepped around, facing them. Their eyes dropped to the flower, the fresh dug dirt on the hero’s hands. The grave.

Their expression softened.

“Ah.”

“You can leave now.”

“Praying for forgiveness, or praying for salvation.”

“I said you can leave now,” the hero snapped. They swiped away an angry tear, dirt smearing on their cheek.

The villain didn’t move.

“Why are you still here?” They bared their teeth in something they hoped was enough of a message to get the villain to leave. They had a feeling it was something pathetic, instead.

“You were crying,” the villain said it like it was an answer.

If the hero thought about it too hard, it was.

They didn’t think about it.

“Burst water line,” they gestured haphazardly to the demolition behind them, the half-flooded street. “No tears, no praying, and certainly no need for you—”

The villain’s expression shifted. “I told you that you needed to microdose your power.”

The hero froze.

“Shut up,” they hissed. “Shut up—“

“You wanted to quit, and I respected that. You have enough scars for a lifetime, we both do. But I warned you. I told you that if you didn’t use your power, it would use you, and it would be an ugly, violent thing.”

The hero shook their head mutely, words stuck under their tongue.

“And you thought you knew better,” the villain continued like it wasn’t breaking the hero’s heart. “You thought you could go through life and keep it bottled inside you and ignore the pressure.”

Their gaze flicked to the wreckage the hero knew lay behind them.

“Did you know better, hero?” Their voice was soft and dangerous. “Did you?”

“I said I was sorry!” It clawed its way out of the hero, and it wasn’t a scream, but it was close. “Okay? I know I messed up. You don’t need to taunt me with it, I already—“

The hero’s gaze settled onto the grave once more.

“I already regret it,” they whispered. “You can’t make me any more sorry than I already am.”

“I’m not trying to make you feel bad.”

“Then you’re failing spectacularly,” the hero snorted derisively.

The villain’s jaw ground.

“I’m trying to make you understand that this would have happened regardless of what you did. And that it’s not your fault.”

The hero blinked.

“You just said that I—“

“I said you thought you could fight your power and win. And you were,” the villain conceded. “You might have made it another month. Maybe two.”

The hero had never seen the villain so angry. “But then someone shot you, off duty and in civilian clothes,” they seethed. “The fallout is on them, not you.”

“I killed a cat,” the hero managed roughly. They blinked back tears.

The villain shook their head.

“You were off-duty. A civilian.”

“I could never be just a civilian, you know that.”

“Just because you were the bullet does not mean you were the one who pulled the trigger.”

“You aren’t making any sense.”

“I am,” the villain corrected. “But you’re grieving, and bleeding, and suffering from a massive energy drop, so you can’t see it yet.”

The hero let the villain pull them to their feet, dirt smearing between their two hands.

“You want forgiveness?” The villain ducked their head to meet the hero’s eyes. “I forgive you.”

The hero forgot how to breathe.

“You can’t just do that.”

“I can do whatever I want. And what I want is for you to stop crying.”

The hero snorted again, but it was lighter this time.

“You’re an ass.”

“And you’re a civilian.”

The hero shook their legs out. When they went to turn back to the grave, the villain caught their chin, turning them away with soft fingers.

“I forgive you,” they said solemnly, as if they had never said anything so important. “They do, too.” They inclined their head just slightly towards the grave.

For once, as their chest collapsed in on itself, the hero believed them

Rest in peace Garry the Goat, you will be deeply missed 🙏🪽😢

Noooo!! This Razor is gonna make it!! I honestly can't do it, not because I am too soft hearted, but because the thought of a horse. Just standing there, minding it's own horse business. And then suddenly getting BLOWN UP buy a GIANT EXPLOSION, out of nowhere, is just visually way too funny. So yeah, he's gonna live :3

Casual Cowboy Friday: Horse Stats Edition! I REALLY love drawing horses. Slave 1 had to be some extra looking black beauty (because Just. The Style Points… and to oppose the Slave 4 in Everything besides the Finger Eating) and Razor (Crest) had to be an old, swaybacked, trusty, if clumsy behemoth of a gentle giant.

Also, the stallion Slave 1 was absoloutly Bobas one and only friend growing up.

What a terrible time

R.I.P Tater Tot

Sad news.......

This poor kitty is died today😞